


Even on Dark Days

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 07:42:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6275638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic





	Even on Dark Days

It has been a bad day. An inordinately bad day the likes of which John hasn’t experienced in a long time. He much prefers Sherlock angry and snapping and throwing things. But this - 

Silence. This stony, blank, somewhere far, far away silence unsettles John right to his core. It twists in between his intestines and makes a home in the empty spaces of his abdomen. It sits heavily with him. It rolls through his stomach and snakes up his esophagus until he can feel the sting and the uncertainty burning on every exhale leaving a taste like bitter ashes on his tongue. 

On these days, he tries. By God, does he try. He makes endless pots of tea  that go mostly untouched and he resolutely does not clean. He reads aloud from the paper or a medical journal, sometimes he even reads old blog posts. He listens to music. Nothing reaches Sherlock when he is like this. Sometimes, he sinks down next to the genius on the sofa and manhandles him until he is laying with his head in John’s lap. Running his fingers through those curls is comforting for John, and, during his more optimistic moments, he hopes it is reassuring for Sherlock too, even if he can’t express it. 

John stays on the sofa with his madman until his eyes burn and he can barely keep his head upright. It seems to have a magnetic relationship with his chest. He places a singular tender kiss to Sherlock’s temple and makes sure to settle him comfortably, it wouldn’t do for Sherlock to come to with a crick in his neck - the stubborn git. 

On these nights, John takes his time getting ready for bed. He lingers, hoping to hear the soft inhalation of breath or the swishing of fabric that signals Sherlock’s return. When he runs out of nightly rituals, he gives in and heads to the bedroom, tucking himself beneath their cool sheets. It always takes John longer to fall asleep when he is alone. If he ever stopped to think about it, which he defiantly does not, it’s probably the fear that keeps him away. When he sleeps alone, he knows it is only a matter of time before he is bolting upright in the dark, covered in sweat with a tremor in his left hand that won’t be stilled. 

He does eventually drift into an uneasy sleep. It is barely two hours before he wakes. He is prepared for it all - the tears and the shaking that he cannot control. But it doesn’t come. John fades into awareness slowly. It’s like finally breaking the surface after spending a long while floating upside-down on the bottom of the pool watching the sun beams dance. He can see the light long before he can actually feel the warmth on his skin. And there is warmth - that surprises him. He feels a gentle pressure encompassing his left hand. 

Rolling over to get a proper look, he can barely make out the outline of Sherlock’s body on the opposite side of the bed. His face is pointed upward toward the ceiling and, as his eyes adjust, John can see that his expression is still vacant. This time, his heart clenches for an entirely different reason. This gesture – there are no words. Even on his darkest days when no one and nothing matters, Sherlock remembers John. Remembers him just enough to know that sleeping alone will hurt him. Even though he cannot rouse his mind to be present quite yet, he made the effort (and that effort must have been Herculean) to be physically present. To comfort and protect John in the only small way he can. He is here, in their bed, holding John’s hand. Relaxing into the reassuring grip, John closes his eyes and smiles as he gives in to a deep, dreamless sleep.


End file.
